Chapter 17 #2
He reaches forward, radiating his body heat on me as he plucks a twig out of my tangled hair. Great. I’ve stormed in here
asking the cliché question “what are we?” while looking like Bigfoot’s dick.
Meanwhile, he is fresh out of bed and looking like one of those pornographic Calvin Klein ads.
“I hiked over here through the woods so no one would see me,” I grumble petulantly, still bitter about how hot he looks.
Wolf’s lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smile. “God, you’re a lot.” And then he loses all humor on his face as he stares
at my shoulder. “You’re fucking bleeding, Everly.”
Oh, I love the way he says my name.
Before I can object, he grabs me by the arms and angrily manhandles me through his apartment, grumbling curses under his breath
the whole way toward his bathroom.
Bathed in the warm yellow vanity lighting, he grips me by the waist and hauls me up onto his small bathroom counter before
I have a chance to catch my breath. It smells like boy in here. Like manly bodywash and toothpaste. I immediately feel like
I’m getting a glimpse behind the curtains of Conri Reilly’s personal hygiene.
“How did this happen?” he growls, his jaw muscle twitching under his five-o’clock shadow. Damn, his mood changed quickly.
One second, he’s smiling at me like I was a cute, lost puppy he wants to rescue, and the next, he’s scowling at me like I’m
a rabid racoon he wants to call animal control on.
Honestly, I’ve been both tonight, so I guess I’m grateful he noticed.
My eyes snag on the loofah inside his shower, and I quickly shake myself out of this stupor to answer his question. “Fowl
Pacino got me.”
“Excuse me?” I feel his eyes blaze on mine.
I shrug and look down. “I thought he was Bigfoot.”
“That makes perfect sense,” he deadpans. I think he’s being funny, but for some bizarre reason, I feel a tiny urge to cry
over how pathetic I must seem to him.
I hook my finger through the four-inch tear on my sleeve and hiss when I accidentally graze my injury. “Dammit, I love this sweatshirt.”
Wolf makes an irritated noise in his throat. “Don’t touch it.”
He reaches under the sink and sets a first aid kit beside me. With deft precision, he opens the container and pulls out a
rubbing alcohol pad. “Are you wearing anything under this?” He grimaces as he struggles to access the wound through the tear.
I nod and peel my hoodie off over my head, now sitting before him in a white athletic tank top and shorts that feel scandalously
small without my giant hoodie hanging over my hips. His sour mood lightens for a fleeting moment as his gaze drags over me,
slow and unhurried. When his eyes linger on my braless chest, I inhale sharply as my nipples pebble under the thin fabric,
acutely aware of his whiskey-brown stare.
And judging by the way Wolf’s jaw flexes, he notices.
“Hold still,” he mutters, voice low and rough as he steps in close, pushing my legs apart to give him better access. His fingers
brush my bare shoulder gently, and the tender contact, coupled with the heat of his close, shirtless proximity and my nearly shirtless body, has my heart hammering in my chest. “Doesn’t look too deep, but I need to clean it.”
I nod and struggle to breathe normally as he bites the corner of the alcohol pad packet with his teeth to open it. Awareness
floods my skin as I get a flash of how he would look opening a condom as well. With how naked both of us are and how thick
the air is in this bathroom, an aching need blooms between my legs, making it hard for me to breathe normally.
I swallow thickly, trying to make sense of this because I don’t often get “turned on.” I’m not one of those girls who even
finds the need to masturbate. I just don’t ever seem to desire that kind of maintenance, I guess. But whatever is happening
in my body every time I’m near Wolf lately is definitely something I want to explore, even though I know I shouldn’t.
I look away, trying to hide my lustful thoughts, and then hiss loudly when he presses the pad to my scratch.
“Ouch,” I exclaim, reaching up to grab his arm as I brace myself against whatever he’s doing.
He frowns down at me, all tall and towery and grumpy. His brows furrow as he says to my lips, “Stop squirming.”
“I can’t help it.”
“I think you can.”
“Maybe it’s not the wipe that has me squirming,” I blurt, my breath hitching in my throat. “You’re just . . . looming over me so much, it’s hard to sit still.”
“Looming?” The corner of his mouth tugs up like he’s trying not to smile. “I wouldn’t have to loom if you’d take better care of yourself.”
“And I wouldn’t have to hike through nature if you’d answer your texts. Why on earth do you think it’s okay to not reply to
text messages after you kiss someone? That is like common human decency.” I glare up at him, trying to hold my own.
He shrugs and glances out toward his apartment. “I went to bed at nine. I didn’t see any text.”
“Nine?” I balk and shake my head. “What are you? Ninety years old?”
His eyes dance with mirth, like he enjoys the fact that he’s irritating me. “I like my sleep.”
“Must be nice,” I mutter, and then realize I’m still gripping his arm.
I release it quickly, and he takes his newfound freedom to fish a Band-Aid out and apply it to my cut. When he’s done, his
eyes move upward as he reaches out and plucks something out of my hair. “You have a whole ecosystem in your hair.”
“Ugh.” I push him back and comb my fingers through my strands, catching on various dried leaves and twigs. Fucking nature. I drop my head and avoid eye contact, only to have his finger crook under my chin as he forces me to look up at him.
“What did your text say?” he asks, his touch lingering on my face as he hits me with a tender, thoughtful look.
I lick my lips nervously. “I was texting to see if you were awake still so we could discuss what happened earlier.”
“And Saturday,” he adds, dropping his hand from my face and taking a step away from me to lean on the opposite wall. Like
he feels the need to create some space between us for this discussion. It’s probably a fair assessment, but I instantly miss
the heat of him. He crosses his arms like he’s bracing for impact.
“I really don’t think we should do that again,” I utter robotically, my tone flat and uninspired. These were the words I was
saying in my head all night in my cabin, and I need to say them now. “And just because you open your door all sexy and shirtless,
doesn’t change anything.”
His brows twitch. “That’s the second time you’ve called me sexy.”
“When was the first?” I ask, my lips parting in shock.
He hits me with a deliciously provocative smirk. “You said my accent was sexy at that party.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever. It’s not like you don’t know you’re sexy.”
“I didn’t know you think I’m sexy.” He pins me with an inscrutable look that I can’t quite decipher.
My nostrils flare as I grip the edge of the counter, forcing myself to stay seated right here and not move closer to his heat.
“It doesn’t matter what I think. We can’t do that again. For so many reasons.”
He eliminates the space between us and plucks a pine needle out of my hair. “What were those reasons again?”
My throat tightens as I inhale his fresh shower scent again. “We work together.”
“Yeah, that could definitely be awkward.” He nods in agreement.
I nod too, my breath coming in short bursts. “And my family is like . . . everywhere. Those sandwiches were probably a dead
giveaway.”
“A dead giveaway that I stuck my tongue down your throat earlier?” His tone is wicked and causes a stirring low in my belly,
because all I can think about right now is having his tongue down somewhere else doing indecent things. I know his tongue
would feel amazing in other areas.
I’d squeeze my thighs together, but he’s sort of standing in between them at the moment.
I clear my throat, my voice weak as I add, “I feel like we were finally starting to become friends. We trauma-bonded.”
“Yeah . . . I like you well enough now that it’s confirmed you’re not a mean girl—”
I reach up and cover his mouth. “Don’t say the last part.”
I feel him smile under my hand and lower it so I can drink in the rare sighting. Although arguably, he smiles a lot more around
me than he ever used to. His eyes zero in on my lips when he adds, “And for the record . . . I think you’re sexy too, Stretch.”
His Irish accent is thick and sultry as he utters my nickname to lighten the whopper of a comment he just made. This boy doesn’t
pass out compliments freely. To know he isn’t “just tolerating” me anymore and that he likes me and thinks I’m sexy feels like I’ve just won the Rugby World Cup. That’s a thing, right? I think I heard Cliona talk about it.
“You think I’m sexy?” I am so weak.
“Fuck yes,” he growls, taking a step closer so his legs are now brushing against the insides of my thighs, causing my whole body to light on fire.
He braces a hand on the counter beside me, his whole body caging me in as our lips come dangerously close together again.
“Your sister is my best friend,” I whisper, my voice choked.
He nods slowly. “My sister is really fucking far away right now. And the very last thing on my mind.”
Goose bumps race over my body in a hot-cold rush, like every nerve ending has woken up for the first time in my entire life.
My sex clenches so sharply I fight the urge to grind myself against the marble counter below me.
But everything hurts. Everything aches. Everything yearns for what is right in front of me, blanketing me in its heat.
I bite hard on my lower lip, fighting this desire coursing through me. I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t even think of this.
Wolf is dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with his temper or his trauma or his relation to my best friend or the fact
that we work together.
He’s dangerous in the way he makes me want to be dangerous myself. Throw out my own manifesto and just . . . fuck his brains out.
God.
Could I even do that?